


White Petroleum

by Verasteine



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Relationship Issues, Relationship Negotiation, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 04:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17418950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine
Summary: Napoleon Solo has learned over the years to carry a certain measure of caution in his private life.





	White Petroleum

**Author's Note:**

> Years too late for this fandom, but what can I say? The bug bit, and I'm here. Thanks muchly to hairyintent, eumelia, and lbcubbison for the beta help.

Napoleon hesitates before picking it up, carrying the small plastic tub from his suitcase to the nightstand, putting it down there in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp before sliding comfortably into bed. 

He hears the shower shut off and it's not long after that Illya emerges, scrubbing at his hair with a hotel towel, pyjama pants clinging to his hips. He stops three steps into the room, his eyes focussed on Napoleon's side of the bed, and then he drops the towel to the floor, coming around to where the little tub sits and look at it with a determined glare. "I am not American."

The look on Illya's face is not encouraging but Napoleon has never been a man to turn from something just because it is intimidating. "I was merely asking, Peril, no need to take it as an insult of your manhood." He keeps his tone light, not resisting the natural drop of his gaze to the front of Illya's pyjama pants. 

Illya's frown smoothes with a mild upturn of his mouth. "My manhood is not insulted," he states formally. "I don't care what we do."

Napoleon pushes up on his elbows to watch Illya with more scrutiny. As usual, Illya is going to be determined to force the topic to the forefront when Napoleon is trying to be subtle. "You don't care?" He makes the words drip with exactly the level of distaste he feels at being dismissed so lightly. "And here I thought we were enjoying ourselves."

What little there is of Illya's amusement fades. He pokes at the tub of vaseline, making it move half an inch across the wood of the nightstand. "I am not like you. I don't care."

_Don't care about what?_ Napoleon doesn't ask; that is never the game they play, even after a month of getting to know each other with increasing levels of intimacy. _I am not like you,_ that implies that Napoleon has acted in some way Illya finds idiosyncratic, something that happens more often between them than Napoleon had presumed it would. The cultural differences between them are greater some days than the similarities, and Napoleon finds he likes discovering them far more than he supposed he would. 

He looks at the object Illya is still glaring at. He knew it would provoke a reaction, it always did, but it was threatening to be more disruptive than he'd hoped. He shouldn't have hoped. "All men have preferences," he states, projecting self possession. "It's only natural for you to have some, too."

Illya's mouth twitches as he looks at Napoleon. "Yes," he agrees, "it is natural." 

Just for once, Napoleon would like him to be more verbose. He wouldn't be as enjoyable, though. "It's there if we wish to use it. I thought it was time."

"You fuck on a schedule?"

It's always pleasurable to hear Illya swear in English, so he takes a moment to appreciate it before treating the actual words with the contempt they require. "I wouldn't want you to get bored," he drawls. 

"And you think sticking your dick in my ass will get my attention." 

It's not a question, and Napoleon stops himself from answering just in time, recognising that moment in any interrogation where silence gets you more than speaking. 

Illya sits down on the edge of the bed, his back to Napoleon, and opens the tub, running a finger tip along the rim and testing the resulting grease by rubbing his fingers together. He puts the tub back and looks over his shoulder at Napoleon. "You did not ask."

Napoleon twirls his hand, meaning to convey that Illya makes things too complicated, but Illya frowns again. "You could have just put it away. That's how we do things, isn't it?"

Illya doesn't like references to their work in the bedroom, and Napoleon gets a glare that tells him exactly what Illya thinks of this allusion to their professional subterfuge. "It's unclear. But you think it is not, because you are American."

Goaded by Illya's insistence that he and his country are at fault somehow, Napoleon retorts, "Well, I don't know how two fellas do this in Russia--" 

Before he can find a way to finish his sentence, Illya laughs briefly. "We fuck in Russia same as in America."

"So what's the problem?"

Illya meets his eyes. "You wish to fuck me? Or you wish for me to fuck you?" Napoleon sits up, opening his mouth, but Illya puts a hand on his chest. "You are not subtle, Cowboy," he adds, nonchalantly insulting Napoleon. "You do not wish to bend over for me."

Napoleon glosses over the mild irritation he always feels whenever Illya is lewder than he needs to be. "You could have just put it in the drawer," he says. "No need to make a production out of it."

"This production--" the word is clearly somewhat foreign to Illya but he slots it into his vocabulary like a good scholar "--was not necessary because you could ask."

He swallows, even though Illya is watching, thinking about why he didn't ask, the words he doesn't want to hear in Illya's voice. Experience taught him it may be inevitable, but he wants to be proven wrong. "Here I was trying to be polite. You have no appreciation for the finer details of society, Peril."

Illya picks up the tub, holding it in his hand, silent for an unbearable moment before saying, "If you do not trust me, why do you ask me to trust you?"

The question hangs in the silent room between them. Illya is smarter than people think, smarter than Napoleon sometimes anticipates. He needs to speak, Napoleon thinks, or Illya may go, end this ill conceived affair before it can become anything other than a sordid collection of sexual encounters. He looks at Illya, the scar near his eye, the waves of his blond hair that Napoleon likes to sink his hands into, the pretty face that fools so many, but not him. 

He glances over to the nightstand, but the whiskey tumbler there is empty and he feels getting up to refill it would reveal too much. He has to speak, but when he opens his mouth he finds himself sliding back into his usual cover. "I return to my point about you just putting it in the drawer. I'm beginning to regret ever trying to bring variety into our routine, Peril, if this is how much of a fuss you make."

Illya's temper flares. "We don't have routine." 

Apparently, that's an insult in Russia. "You don't mind me asking to fuck you, but you mind that?"

"I mind..." Illya pauses to choose his words, frowning. "I mind that you do not speak to me."

Napoleon sighs, resigning himself to Illya dragging the confrontation to the forefront that Napoleon was trying to avoid. "Not everyone likes to hear things out loud, Peril." 

"Cowboy." Illya puts layers into the nickname. Napoleon isn't sure he's ever heard Illya use his name. "If you wish to hide things from me, you can."

Illya is conceding too quickly and Napoleon tries to take that at face value, ignoring the warning signs that he shouldn't. His mood is far from it at this point, but he's suddenly eager to bed Illya, sensing that if they go without sex tonight, Illya will not come back the next night. "Then can we get on with it?"

Illya nods thoughtfully, putting the tub on the nightstand and stripping off his clothes. Napoleon watches, trying to enjoy the view and failing. Illya slides into the bed, making Napoleon shift over, and turns onto his side to look at him. "So. Do you wish to fuck me?"

Trapped by his closeness, Napoleon's heart jumps into his throat and his mouth tastes bitter and metallic, phantom memories of a slug to the face that left him reeling with betrayal. He blinks to keep from swallowing, sucks in a quiet breath to calm his pulse. Illya is too near not to be able to tell. 

Illya frowns, lifting a hand to touch Napoleon's cheek, running his fingers down to his mouth. Napoleon closes his eyes briefly to feel the softness of that touch, holding himself still to keep from giving the stakes away. When he opens his eyes Illya kisses him with determination and intensity. Napoleon returns it, working hard to let it happen naturally. How much would Illya hate him if Napoleon pushed through this with him now the way he does with marks on missions, indifferent sex and synthetic affection?

Neither of them makes any further move, and Illya pulls back. "Cowboy? Do you want me to go?"

Napoleon feels pinned in place, like a dead insect on display in a museum. He doesn't want to let Illya go, fears the price he'll pay if he doesn't send him away now. "No," he says finally. 

Illya rolls away from him, onto his back, eyes still on Napoleon's face. "We can do this, and, how do you say, hate each other in the morning."

Napoleon is confused if he said that part aloud, knowing that he didn't. "I don't want to us to hate each other."

"Good. Me neither." Illya twists back, taking the tub of vaseline and opening the drawer, dropping it into the nightstand and closing it. Napoleon watches him, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. He's losing the game and he's not sure what the stakes are anymore. Illya looks at him, lamp light reflecting off the waves in his hair. "You wish to hide. Is okay."

Napoleon bristles at the thought of needing Illya's permission for anything. "You think you have it all figured out."

Illya nods, studying Napoleon with unsettling calm, seeming to come to a decision. "I know you're scared. I gave you no reason to be scared. Conclusion, you are not scared of me."

Napoleon is trapped under that gaze, Illya poking through his bitter defences in a few quick sentences. 

"Scared men don't perform well," Illya adds blithely. "Hence your reluctance to pursue me now."

Ironically, the insult puts him back on firmer ground. He pushes up on one elbow, glaring. "Now wait a minute." 

Illya ignores that, too. "I am not like American. I do not think you say I have small cock because you wish to stick yours in my ass. I am not angry. I don't want to hurt you."

Napoleon really wishes for some scotch against the bitter, metallic flavour that keeps lingering in his mouth. "It's not about you, exactly."

"I know that," Illya replies, looking at him.

Napoleon meets his eyes and it sinks in; he has underestimated Illya, overestimated his own skills, or both. "I'm becoming slow in my old age."

"You let me in," Illya replies. "Easy to see the cracks up close."

Napoleon Solo has never been a man to turn from something just because it is intimidating. He takes another step in their mutual minefield. "In the past, men have... taken exception at my more... intimate suggestions," he says carefully. 

Illya's jaw clenches. "They threaten you with violence because you wish to fuck them."

"Some did more than threaten." It's hard to seriously hurt Napoleon, but taking a punch to the face from a man you previously felt at least a modicum of affection for leaves other damage.

Illya's hand comes up to rest on his chest, and Napoleon looks down, feeling the warmth of Illya's skin seep into his own. "It is okay, Cowboy. I will bend over for you when you want because I do not mind."

The image that evokes doesn't suit what he wants, is too vulgar for what they've been doing together so far. "I don't want it like that. I'm not a brute."

The corners of Illya's mouth quirk, and his thumb rubs over Napoleon's skin. "Sssh, I know. It is, like you say, turn of phrase."

Napoleon wants to laugh, but it comes out wrong, a bitter sound like the taste in his mouth.

Illya leans in for a kiss, soothing and gentle, like Napoleon is delicate and breakable. He slides his hand into Illya's hair and pulls him more firmly towards himself. Illya comes, settling against him, but he doesn't do anything more. They lie quietly together for a while, until the silence becomes pressing.

Napoleon casts about for something that'll put them, him on firmer ground, finds his wits about himself. He reaches up to stroke a lock of hair from Illya's forehead, smiling a little when Illya's eyes track him with a hint of ingrained suspicion. He waits for Illya to relax into the touch, and then he says, "Now if you think I'm going to let you get away with insulting my nationality every time we're in bed, I really need to set the record straight, Peril."

Illya is silent for a moment, and then he laughs.

_finis_.


End file.
